My love, my love, how often in old days
I cried, "Oh, I would die for you, dear heart!"
But He who planned the parting of our ways
Appointed unto me the harder part.
He cares not greatly for my thanks, I wis,
But in your converse with Him (which must be,
Since that, only that, accounts for this
Astounding silence between you and me),

Say that from out a life all bruised and broken
In grief too deep for tears to do their share,
My prayers of gratitude are hourly spoken
Because He saved you from the cross I bear.
Such grievous pain, such unrelenting woe---
You never could have borne it, dear, I know.

Sonnets of sorrow and triumph. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
New York: George H. Doran, 1918.

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